by Mae Clair
“I’m going to get a hotel in Palmer Point so I can be close in the event of another breakthrough,” Jillian said somewhere after ten thirty.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” It took some wheedling, but Dante eventually convinced her it would be better to go home. He reminded her the doctors said it could be weeks or even months until Madison spoke again. “The worst thing you can do is build up false hope. Stay positive and let time run its natural course.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He guessed it was the three years she had invested in waiting that made her concede. She fell asleep on the drive home, curled in the seat of his 4Runner.
By the time they pulled into his driveway, he could feel his own muscles yielding to exhaustion. The day had been draining, more mentally than physically, just as taxing. Trying to banish a lingering ache, he massaged his temple.
Jillian stirred. She came awake rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Close to one.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I need to get home.”
“In the morning. You’re not driving anywhere this late at night, especially as tired as you are. I live in a behemoth.” He jutted his chin to indicate the sprawling home visible through the windshield. “It’s got plenty of spare bedrooms. You can take your pick.”
She sighed. “Dante—”
“No arguments.” He was out of the vehicle and around the side before she could finish the protest. Opening the door, he extended his free hand to help her down. “As a plus, I’ll make breakfast in the morning. How’s that?”
The shadow of a smile touched her lips. “We didn’t even talk about what happened when you connected with Madison.”
“Tomorrow.” Blood. A black lizard. “I’m too tired. Let’s call it a night.”
She slid from the 4Runner, then opened the back door to gather Blizzard’s leash. The husky bounded to the ground, shuffled his nose through the grass, and stretched.
“I really owe you for everything you did today.” Jillian lifted her face to gaze up at him.
“No, you don’t.” She seemed as frail as her sister. Maybe it was the fact her exhaustion showed so plainly. With her blond hair unbound, disheveled around her face, she looked like a wraith, something the wind might blow away. “But I think you need a break from all the stress you’ve been under.” Hooking an arm around her shoulders, he led her from the driveway toward the house. “Next Friday you can set everyone and everything aside—Madison, Vane, Hickory Chapel Cemetery—and enjoy yourself for a night.”
“Ah.” A sliver of amusement crept into her voice. “The Masquerade Pub Crawl.”
“It would be a nice way to say thank you.” He drew away to insert his key into the lock. “I’m just saying.” The grin he flashed was calculating. “If you wanted to.”
“You’re not bashful about pulling strings.”
“So I’m told.” He opened the door and waved her inside. “And I’ll take that as a yes.”
* * * *
Dante was true to his word. Jillian awoke the next morning to the scents of freshly brewed coffee and bacon. She’d slept soundly, despite being in unfamiliar surroundings. The bedroom was spacious with a color scheme of toasted almond and rose. She’d used nothing but soothing tones in her own home, a conscious effort to create a relaxing environment, and welcomed the airiness of the color palette. After slipping into the adjoining bath, she freshened up, then pulled her long hair into a ponytail. Blizzard was nowhere to be seen.
She dressed quickly, noting she’d slept until almost ten. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she scrolled through her cell phone for messages, hoping there would be word from Rest Haven.
Nothing.
Discouragement fluttered awake in her stomach, but she hammered it down. Dante was right. She needed to stay positive and not lose sight by getting her hopes up too soon. Flipping to her text messages, she found a brief notice from Yancy. The website met with his approval, and she should publish it. At least that was one project she could put behind her.
Gathering her purse and coat from a bedside chair, she slipped her phone in the bag then wandered into the hallway. Dante hadn’t lied when he said the house was a behemoth. It took a moment to get her bearings and conjure an image of the hallway from last night.
The house appeared to have front and back staircases. She descended the one to the front, feeling like a movie star making a grand entrance as she followed the sweeping curve to the bottom. From the foyer she trailed the smell of coffee, bypassing a two-story great room, elaborate formal dining room, and a study overflowing with books.
Dante stood in the kitchen, adjusting the flame beneath a pan of bacon. A short distance away, Blizzard lay beside a massive center island with dark walnut millwork and a granite top. The remaining cabinetry was white, fusing English country and French bistro for an upscale look that was both trendy and classic. The deeply coffered ceiling and rough-cut stone accents made her feel like she’d stepped into an English manor.
“Good morning.” Her tidy brownstone suddenly felt like a shoebox.
“Morning.” Dante flashed a grin, then motioned to the counter. “I made coffee, but I can do tea or espresso if you’d rather.”
“Coffee’s fine.” Blizzard wandered over, and she bent to rough the husky behind the ears. “How’d you sleep, boy, huh?” His tail swayed back and forth. “Poor guy is probably hungry, especially smelling all this good food.”
“I’ll take that as testament to my cooking skills.” Dante cracked an egg over a skillet. “Hope you like scrambled.” He looked different this morning, his dark hair unbound. Because he usually wore it in a ponytail, she hadn’t realized how long or curly it was.
“Scrambled sounds wonderful.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a full breakfast. “I should take Blizzard for a walk.”
“I already did that. He ate, too.”
Jillian located a cup beside the pot and filled it with coffee. “I’m afraid to ask what you gave him.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. I have a friend who drops by now and then to talk art. When he does, he usually brings his dog, so I stock some food. Blizzard got the usual canned variety.”
“All this hospitality.” She slid onto a stool at the center island, then relaxed against the chair’s high back, coffee mug cradled in her hand. “What can I do to help?”
He pushed the eggs around the skillet with a spatula. “Would you like toast?”
“No.”
“Then just sit there and relax.” Within a few minutes he had their breakfast plated up—scrambled eggs with bacon and fresh fruit. They ate in the adjoining breakfast room, an open area with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides and sun tunnels overhead. The view was picturesque, overlooking a stone patio and the gentle slope of the rear yard. A stand of trees guarded the perimeter, their colorful leaves creating a backdrop of cinnamon, poppy, and gold.
Jillian took the last bite of fruit from her plate, then set her fork aside. “Thank you for breakfast. It was delicious.”
Dante offered a quirky smile. “Passable. Especially after a late night.”
The observation gave her the opening she needed. “You never did tell me what happened when you connected with Madison.” It was still unthinkable that after three years of silence—except for screams—her sister had finally spoken. Maybe Maddy’s phantom smile last week had been the beginning of a greater breakthrough.
“I figured you’d get around to asking sooner or later.” Dante puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled. He fiddled with his fork, prodding a piece of cantaloupe as if mulling over what to say. “I did pick up impressions from Madison, but they were disjointed. Random flashes. Bits and pieces of things here and there.”
Jillian tensed. “Did you see faces?” If he’d gotten into Madison’s head, seen what she had, there was a chance he could
identify Boyd’s killers.
“No faces. Mostly—” He grimaced. “Blood.”
She rubbed her forehead. “What else?”
“The knife. A black lizard.”
She angled her gaze to catch his. “A lizard?”
“A black lizard.” He stressed the clarification, then shrugged. “I don’t think it was an actual lizard, more like a symbol. I don’t know why it’s important, but it means something to Madison.”
“It might mean something to Sherre, too.” Her mind engaged in mental cartwheels, Jillian shoved to her feet. “It might be a gang symbol, or it could have something to do with the drugs.” She started to pace. “Maybe one of the killers was wearing a T-shirt with a lizard. It could be anything.”
“It could.” Dante pushed his plate away. “You always say killers. Are you sure there was more than one?”
“Yes.” She flexed her hands. “Someone restrained Madison while the killer attacked Boyd. There were bruises on her arms, and the police recovered two sets of fingerprints.”
“What about the neighbors? No one saw anything? Heard anything?”
“The next-door neighbor heard Madison screaming. He’s the one who called the police. He thinks he saw three people running from the backyard but couldn’t give any kind of identification. It was still dark, and all he saw were shapes moving around. He’s an elderly man and his eyesight is poor.”
“I’m sorry there hasn’t been closure.”
“It’s more than that. I want the killers caught, but mostly I just want my sister whole.” Gripping the back of her chair, she regarded him across the table. “I’m worried about her, Dante. She’s already frail. What if something happens to her because of what’s going on with the cemetery and Gabriel’s remains? Even a minor accident could be fatal for Madison.”
“That’s not likely to happen when she’s in a care facility. And speaking of Vane, I have something I want to show you.” He shoved back his chair and stood. “I’ll be right back.”
While he disappeared down the hallway, Jillian cleared the table. By the time he returned, she had their plates in a sink full of soapy water.
“I found this in the attic.” He plopped a ledger-sized book on the center island.
Drying her hands on a towel, Jillian stepped closer. “What is it?”
“Something my grandmother used to fiddle with.” He opened the cover and paged through several sheets. “A genealogy of the early families of Hode’s Hill. You mentioned Atticus Crowe before.”
She nodded. She knew her own family lineage but not that of others.
“Look.” Dante pointed to a genealogy chart.
Fascinated, she slid onto a stool, angling the book for a better look. Atticus was there, including her own line that flowed through his oldest son, Enoch.
“This is amazing.” She traced her finger down the page, picking up names she’d heard bandied around by members of her family—Margret and Herman Woods, Eliza and Marcus Billings, Melissa and Bryan Farner. Even her own grandparents and parents where there—Jane and Nathan Bricker, Amelia and Wade Cley. At the very bottom, she saw her name and Madison’s.
“I don’t believe it.” Shock washed through her as she lifted her gaze to Dante. “Your grandmother traced my entire family line back to Atticus and his wife, Myrna Felty. When you look at this chart, you’ll understand how the line flows through both the men and women in the family.”
“I get that, but I thought you said Atticus had four children.”
“He did.” She pointed to a few scribbled notations off to the side. “Your grandmother jotted it here. Dinah and Jasper both died in 1799.”
“There’s a fourth one.” Dante bent over the book, tracing a different line with his finger. “It looks like the oldest daughter, Fern, married someone named Oren Inghram.” Shifting the book closer, he began paging though the contents. “Why does it fall on your line and not on Fern’s?”
“I don’t know.” She’d never stopped to consider Fern. “Maybe because the responsibility has to flow from the eldest son in the ancestry.”
“Here’s Fern’s family tree.” He studied it for a moment, a frown growing as he scanned the names. “This is interesting.”
“What is?”
“Take a look at the last entry in the hierarchy.” He pointed. “Seems to me you mentioned that name only yesterday.”
Her gaze dropped to the spot he indicated, and her breath escaped in a rush. His grandmother had scrawled a single name in flowing script at the bottom of the page.
Eli Yancy.
Chapter 11
October 21, 1799
Life had turned upside down, become unrecognizable. Clinging to the shadows, Gabriel darted between homes, Dinah’s emerald clutched tightly in his fingers. In a matter of three days, the world as he’d known it had tumbled into oblivion.
Dinah had died in his arms.
Within thirty-six hours of Jasper’s death, she succumbed to the same ailment that had claimed her brother. A sickness that swept through the village, striking one victim after another without discernment for age or status. Little Gail Hodgers passed in the same hour as her grandfather. Phillip Edwards was found the next morning, along with his wife, Beatrice, and all four of their children. William Todder, his mother, and a spinster aunt all perished within minutes of each other. It didn’t take long for the word “plague” to circulate or for rumors of the supernatural to fester.
No malady could be so swift, so savage. The sickness had sprung from nowhere.
People began to look at Gabriel, remembering his injury and how ill he’d become after suffering an attack from the Endling. Atticus Crowe fell into despair when Jasper passed. When Dinah ailed, he put two and two together, starting to whisper that both of his children had tended to Gabriel. He pointed out the odd yellow cast of Gabriel’s eyes. When it became apparent that Dinah would not recover, something inside him snapped. His daughter was the first to realize it.
“My father has convinced the men of the village you are possessed by a demon. He has lost all sanity to grief.” Her voice was no more than a thready whisper when Gabriel cradled her in his arms. “Do not let him have the emerald. I fear how he might use its power. In the wrong hands, the stone can inflict horrible destruction. He will try to use it to vanquish the plague, but the power will corrupt him. If there is any hope for those who remain, you must keep it safe. I will not see the morrow, but as I love you, we shall surely meet again in a better place.”
He’d crushed her to his chest when she’d taken her last breath. Was still cradling her, tears dampening her hair, when Atticus burst into the room.
“Do not touch her, filthy scum!” The older man shoved him from Dinah. “You have done this! Brought this unholy sickness to our village. There is no hope for any who remain until your life is forfeit, demon!”
Gabriel backed further into the room. Crowe was no longer a man he recognized, his face twisted with rage, eyes fired by fanatical righteousness. Something had transformed him—hatred, mania, grief—whatever the fuse, he’d crossed the line of sanity.
Throat dry, Gabriel shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Other villagers crowded into the small space. He looked over their angry faces, noted Dinah’s brother, Enoch, blocking the doorway. Had they not once laughed together, shared brandy, and raced horses across summer fields?
Atticus thrust a finger in his direction. “Look at his eyes. Do they not gleam yellow like a devil’s? Did I not say he is at fault for this heinous plague?”
“Aye,” Cyrus Herman agreed. “He is possessed of evil. It must be him that brought the illness upon us.”
“No.” How could they misjudge him after he’d risked his life to safeguard them? “My eyes gleam because of the Endling. Ask Hiram.”
“Hiram is dead.” Atticus spat th
e words in judgment. “Taken by the same fell fever that claimed Jasper and now Dinah.” He did not move to touch his daughter.
“Swift action must be taken to bring an end to this vile sickness.” Cyrus stepped closer, his posture signaling aggression.
“Aye.” Farley, the tanner, muscled in beside him.
Recognizing the time for talk had passed, Gabriel plowed into Atticus. He never slowed even as Dinah’s father reeled backward, staggering into Cyrus and Farley. Gabriel bludgeoned shoulder-first against Enoch. Hands grappled him, but he blundered free, managing to thrust past Enoch as Jasper’s brother buckled at the waist. In the main room, he vaulted the sofa. Was halfway to the door when he snatched an oil lantern and shattered it on a straw rug. Flame and oil spread quickly, the men on his heels forced to bat down the fire before it could spread.
Darkness enveloped him outside, the touch of the night barely noticeable as he ducked between houses.
Jasper. Dinah. Hiram. All dead.
A cold fist twisted his gut. He fought the urge to retch and shoved the grim truth from his mind. Panting, he slipped into deeper shadows. There was no one left to help or offer a voice of reason. Atticus had turned friends and neighbors against him.
Vernon Hode.
The face of the village elder flashed through his mind. Hode had as much clout, if not more, than Atticus, and he hadn’t bought into the hysteria that claimed the rest of the small populace. If Gabriel could reach him, there was a chance he might restore order.
Behind him came the sound of angry footfalls and cursing. Men he’d once called friends, spreading out to hunt him like a beast.
He risked a glance around the corner of the building that shielded him. Atticus Crowe stood in the middle of the street, a tall, thin shadow with a face like the grave.